Waning In a Labyrinth of Mourning Roses
When onyx skies bleed
rhinestones etched in regrets,
follow the silence;
Unsung sonatas
cradling watercolor spells
woven with magic—
from violet blaze,
beneath mulberry gloaming,
where dark poets rhyme.
But when summer rain
falls upon metal steel hearts
in cashmere cadence,
Listen to the breeze
swirling sunflower secrets
of forlorn fervor.
Amidst lavender
longings for pearlescent bliss
on glistening vines.
For even chained doves
think in dulcet runes that glow,
drawing moonlit dusks
Whilst saffron sunsets
with electric quills of faith
release healing ink.
But can scribbles veil
fog of doubt, when astral signs
mislead the naive?
Is "trust" a lost star
waning in a labyrinth
of mourning roses?
and "hope" a myth of dreamers?
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